


and pleased me more than the real sea

by Ghostcat



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Canon Compliant, First Meetings, M/M, Oliver pov, outtake from Pense-bête
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 13:18:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15219989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/pseuds/Ghostcat
Summary: July 8, 1983: Elio and Oliver meet for the first time.This is an outtake from part one ofPiano Sonata in G Major, "Pense-bête"that doesn't quite fit but I don't want to get rid of.





	and pleased me more than the real sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CECodder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CECodder/gifts).



> for Caro, who I hope won't be too mad that no one makes out in this deleted scene.
> 
> the title is from the Antonia Pozzi poem "Amore di lontananza"

   Forget Thursday, it’s another Friday—July 8, 1983. Oliver, exhausted by travel, parlayed that exhaustion into a loose-limbed casual joviality; he greeted his summer residency hosts, Samuel and Annella Perlman, with more warmth than he thought possible, given he’d been traveling for fourteen hours on a ferry, three different rust-bucket buses, and a train in an ill-advised attempt at frugality. He was grateful, so grateful, to finally be there—and wanted to present his best self before passing out in whichever broom closet they gave him.

   It was easier than expected to appear breezily agreeable when his tiredness was practically inebriation and the day was this beautiful; hot, bright, with the summer wind blowing his hair back as if he were a god needing worship. But despite the lure of all this splendor, what he wanted most was a bed. A quiet patch of sun at his back and the safety of sleep, with nothing and no one needing an answer out of him. He’d hoped the Perlmans would be understanding…and judging from their welcome, it seemed guaranteed.

   Their house was stunning, like a saltbox with railway-green shutters surrounded by fruit trees and shaded lawns. The visual was nearly overwhelming so he stopped looking, and focused on Professor Perlman’s musical voice, American with a hint of the Continent and perhaps the kibbutz. The warmth of his wife’s eyes, squinting slightly as she lit a long cigarette. The cool interior temperature of the study they guided him into. His pulse rate slowed, and sleep once again clouded the corners of his eyes.

   Then their son strode into the room and shook his hand. The air shifted, the way it seems to in films, became warmer. Professor Perlman said their names rapidly, one before the other and reversed, as if they were one name. Oliver nodded once, brisk and sure, sticking his hands in his pockets and immediately overcompensating for his internal reaction, which was like wakefulness itself.

   In a matter of seconds, Oliver read the young man as quickly as he would a possible threat—like something worthy of immediate study. He categorized his features and body language: doleful eyes, wide smile, teeth very nearly perfect, dark eyebrows like a calligraphy brush-swipe, a fine-shaped mouth with lips that were full at the bottom and expressive at the top. A pleasing face, delicate even, and yet there was something in his eyes, mocking and steady, that undermined the presentation. As if he were suppressing laughter at some secret, and would withhold the source of that mirth for as long as it pleased him. After introducing himself to Oliver, he turned his head towards his father with a quick, considered pivot; taking a bow following a role well-played. The charming, dutiful son with an easy smile that didn’t match the complexity of his gaze.

   It was not accomplished, that presentation. Oliver knew what it was to perform a version of the self for others, and he could see something roiling underneath the kid’s cultural-aristocrat’s polish, emotions he wasn’t rehearsed enough to hide. Excitement. Unease. He bristled. Teemed. “Can I bring your things up to your room?” he asked, followed by “…my room,” directed at his mother. Oliver breathed in, enlightened at last. He was taking this charmed only-child’s place and had to stop himself from whispering out loud, “Ah, I see.”

   Just past the entrance way, the kid shot him a sharp look, as if he’d heard. Raising his eyebrows, tongue darting out to flick the corner of his mouth. Once, then twice. His lips wobbled as if he couldn’t decide whether to grin or not and eventually did neither. That mouth dropped open and didn’t settle into anything Oliver could read.

   Oliver, Elio, Elio, Oliver. Elio was his name. Elio pretended. Elio resented. Elio was interested. Interesting.

   The professor spoke at his elbow and Oliver smiled at the right moments, nodded, following the son, now carrying his bags like a porter, out into the hallway. Oliver failed to suppress a yawn. An attractive girl with long brown hair passed them on the stairs, greeting or saying goodbye with a kiss to both his cheeks, as if that were a thing that happened here. Beauty and enchantment, easily given and received—ordinary. Oliver watched her go, and when he turned, he caught Elio’s stare again. Gimlet-eyed, as they say in stories. He returned it with a placid smile, not giving an inch, but excited as well. Oliver had always been drawn to what he couldn’t quite crack in an instant.

   Where had the young woman come from? Had this skinny kid (it was safer to call him a kid than by his name, more distancing) just fucked a young woman in the room where he was supposed to sleep? That couldn’t be right. But if this Elio didn’t want him around, why wouldn’t he? It seemed to Oliver that he would probably do the same, if the shoe were on the other foot. Well, think about, but not actually do. Oliver was, at heart, a good boy. So if this kid had, was the sort to try such a thing, well, he had one over Oliver already. The gift of boldness. Attack.

   The Perlmans waved from the bottom of the stairs, the picture of welcome. Elio’s skinny legs, walking away from him, were too pale for the weather, surely. He was barefoot. His toes were long and not-nearly tan enough like the rest of him. The kid spoke; he had a mush-mouthed way around words, all soft  _shhh_ sounds, susurrant and alluring, and when Oliver stepped through the door into Elio’s bedroom, he understood quickly that they were essentially roommates. Two adjoining rooms, two doors between them, a shared bathroom. They would be sleeping a few steps away from each other. It wouldn’t do to be adversaries. Friends, then. Green-eyed and long-limbed Elio. Risk-drawn Oliver. Cunning-resourceful Oliver. _Polú-tropos_ , πολύ-τροπος. Because he was Odysseus now, smart and stupid and lost. He hoped the kid couldn’t hear the ancient Greek inside his head.

    Behind him, the door slammed, startling him forward.

    His unwilling host had barely gotten the room ready, there were books everywhere, clothes, a guitar, but no matter, there was a bed. Two of them, twin-sized. Oliver would push them together, maybe, so he could fit. But later. Definitely later. There would be time for everything later. He fell head first and breathed in white-and-blue-patterned sheets, which smelled like detergent and sweat, mild and somewhat-sweet.

   The boy kept talking, in short, staccato sentences. His words shouldn’t have calmed Oliver, but they did. They were like fingers in his hair, soothing him to sleep.

   Elio Perlman. What a lovely name. Sun and sea. Light and pearls. A man who traded pearls. Or found them. In the sea. Which was nowhere near.

   Oliver’s last thought before giving in was half of one; nonsensical, unfinished and prescient.  _You will cause me no end of irritation, or perhaps sorrow, because and because… you… later._

   He had no way of knowing at the time how true that would turn out to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Cheshirecatstrut for the quick grammar beta. You're the best.


End file.
